Angel Cookie Christmas

Chapter 1: Pinetop Homecoming

A knock sounded at the front door of Willa Murray's townhouse. She jolted from her stance in front of the flickering fire and set her mug of hot tea on the whitewashed oak mantle above the hearth. She'd been using it to her warm her icy fingers. It had miserably failed to chase away the cold ache in her heart.

Though the nightlife in Tombstone, Arizona was in full swing at nine o' clock, it was a fairly late hour for visitors. Frowning at the interruption of her trip down melancholy lane, she smoothed her hands over the full skirts of her purple velvet theater gown, forced a smile fit for the stage, and glided to the entry foyer. Her high-heeled boots clicked against the black and white marble tiles, echoing down the shadowy hall.

She cautiously peered through the peephole but could see no movement on the other side of the door. No person, no animal, nothing except the ghostly, swirling leaves from the trio of dying mountain laurels forming a soldierly straight line on her lawn. They provided the only nod to privacy between her front door and the busy city street beyond it.

Mystified, she threw the deadbolt and slid the door open a crack. A mid-November breeze whistled through the opening, making her shiver. Glancing across her empty covered portico, she was about to close the door when a small square package caught her eye.

From the glow of street lanterns, she could see it was wrapped in plain brown parchment paper with a bow of thin string securing it. What now? Accustomed to the fawning attention of adoring fans and an occasional stalker, she pushed the door open wider and threw another glance around the empty yard and portico before venturing onto the cobblestone walkway. She snatched up the small gift and hurried back inside with it clutched to her chest. She firmly shut the door and stood, panting and blinking back tears, with her shoulder blades pressed against its heavy wood paneling.

Harlan Stoneriver, may he rest in peace, had been fond of leaving her whimsical and impromptu gifts all seasons of the year and all hours of the day and night. But the odd little package couldn't be from him unless the ghost of his Christmas past had scheduled an early holiday appearance. The truth was Harlan Stoneriver was never going to deliver her another half-limp cluster of wildflowers or quirky piece of pottery, because he'd died in a riding accident. Today was the four month anniversary of his tragic passing.

"What am I going to do without you?" she wailed to the empty foyer, letting her tears flow freely now that she was safely inside the walls of her luxurious home once more. "Best friends don't leave best friends alone in the world like this. They just...don't."

He'd been her boss, her mentor, the owner of the thriving theater company she worked for. And now that he was gone, his younger brother had taken over — a man whose knowledge about the acting business wouldn't fill a teacup. A man who couldn't be bothered with trivial things like patron attendance records or ticket sales. He was too busy flirting with the female cast members, indulging himself in Harlan's collection of fine wines from around the world, and installing his favorite niece as the next darling of Desert Productions.

Maybe if Willa had flirted back, he wouldn't be working so hard to replace her. A familiar feeling of revulsion washed over her, staunching her tears. Over her dead body would that slimy excuse of a man paw her face or figure! If he were the last marriageable man on earth, she would choose a life of spinsterhood over him, no jest.

A prospect that was becoming more and more likely with her twenty-eighth birthday approaching and the closest thing she'd ever had to a beau resting beneath the frosty ground in Tombstone Cemetery...

Blowing a few loose strands of dark hair from her damp cheeks, she took a closer look at the package. A tiny card was threaded through the bow of string. Opening it, she was amazed at how spidery the signature appeared, as if someone very old had written it. Someone very old and very spicy from the heady scent of ginger and molasses wafting up from the paper.